An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

After the rain on stone  droplets linger  waiting for their turn  to go back to the sky The clouds part the storm moves on the sun returns in all its glory Too short an existence but long enough from water to vapor each drop rises again.

Enhanced vision  from a tertiary eye unseen by mortals  but granted by heaven a knowledge beyond knowing a fate beyond feeling  they called her lucky  her words prophetic  but her sight is cursed  to see what could have been  what should have been  instead of what it is now

I am a phantom  of who I was meant to be  She stands mute  and shakes her head  She wonders how  I chose the life I did  She does not criticize She does not judge She takes my hands  "There is still hope."

Walk through the meadow  full of honey-thick clover breathe in the scent  of flowers and greenery  in its most natural state  feel the power of the earth  right beneath your feet  the lines that run through every bit of land carry life wherever if flows it thrums with vitality  that is muted in the city  in a cage of brick and steel and concrete  but it strongly exists here

Good memories written in  hard-bound journals fill so many boxes in the attic left to gather dust as the years go by a time long ago a world so different from the one the children and grandchildren and great grandchildren take for granted sixty years  in black ink  with certain days  outlined in red

Power in lightning: a brief flash  but in that single  moment in time  there is enough  to level a mountain at just the right height there is enough to light up a thousand lamps there is enough to make the night look like daytime but only if it is harnessed  to its greatest potential